


in our bed after the war

by katsumi



Series: a future we didn't dare hope for [2]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Movie(s), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 09:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11310267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: “You’re going to join me in bed soon, right?" he asks. "Because today has been exhausting. Your stores areloudand way too bright. Oppressively bright. And the lighting in here is fine, so I know that’s not standard to the time period. They’rechoosingto make it that bright.”(In which an apparently-not-dead Steve reappears in the 21st century, giving him and Diana another chance to make a life together. They take it.)





	in our bed after the war

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [later on the road is gonna break your world in two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11109126), but you don't need to have read that one to understand this one.
> 
> I took a few [cuddle prompts](http://leralynne.tumblr.com/tagged/cuddle-prompts) from tumblr and wound up building a full-blown story around them, so if you feel like you've read snippets of this before, that's probably why!
> 
> Also standard disclaimer: I'm not familiar with the broader DCEU, so this is all based on the Wonder Woman (2017) movie.

The first time Diana met Steve was on the beach in Themyscira, sand on her knees and ocean in her hair, certain from that very moment that her life would be different from then on.

The second time Diana met Steve was on a rooftop in Paris one hundred years later—one hundred years after she watched his plane explode in the skies above Belgium. And that same feeling crawled across her chest, nestled deep within her heart, whispering: _this is it. Something’s about to change._

Steve can offer no explanation for his sudden reappearance aside from _Zeus did something?_ and _I was waiting someplace bright_ and _I think I was possibly in purgatory?_ Which is of course no explanation at all, really, but Diana can’t find it in her to care. He is here, alive and solid and breathing, and it is as if all those wishes she’s made on shooting stars, pennies in fountains, and dandelions in an open fields have suddenly come true.

So she accepts it. She takes him to her room—to her bed, to her arms—and holds him there the way she did just once so many years ago. And she thinks, once again: _this is it._

Before, her life was bisected by Steve: her time on Themyscira before she knew him, and her time on Earth after. Her childhood, her years of training, and her adulthood, her mission to protect humanity.

And now again, Steve’s presence would split her life into new phases. The time before Steve returned from the dead, and this—the time after.

 

* * *

 

**+1 day after**

Diana stares at the bedspread with the kind of penetrating scrutiny she usually reserves for breaking the resolve of alien criminals seeking to destroy the earth.

“I don’t know.”

Steve, who has flopped down in the center of the bed—his limbs flung wide like he’s about to be drawn and quartered—tilts his neck up to look at her.

“Seriously?” he asks, wiggling a bit against the slate gray comforter. “I like it. Don’t you?”

Diana bends to run her hand along the fabric, inspecting the way it ripples beneath her fingertips. It’s a lovely bed set: impeccably crafted and in a neutral, yet pleasing, color. It was an easy decision in the store, made while Steve tried on clothes by himself because _“I’ve got this, Diana; a hundred years later and men are still wearing suits, this can’t be that hard."_

Now that she’s here in the soft light of the bedroom, having stripped the bed of its old coverings and adorned it anew, she finds herself unsure. It’s a strange feeling. She hasn’t thought twice about a single cosmetic decision, not since she tried on all those dresses at Etta Candy’s request almost one hundred years ago.

But this isn’t just any decision. She is not the only one impacted by this choice.

Steve nudges her hand with his toe. “Diana.”

She looks at him, at his soft, concerned eyes in such contrast to that sharp jaw. It’s a bit of a strange sight to see him in boxers and a white t-shirt, so anachronous to the world in which they met. But it’s a very, very welcome sight nonetheless.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. And before she can answer: “Not with the bed, because nothing’s wrong with the bed. This is the nicest bed I’ve ever been in. Beds sure have come a long way in the past 100 years.”

She ducks her chin, smiling in spite of the ache that’s pooling in her chest. “They have, yes.”

“So?

Diana sits on the edge of the bed and lays her hand along the comforter, palm upturned. Steve’s hand finds hers within seconds.

“I like the bed set,” she says, squeezing his fingers. “That’s why I picked it. But it’s—it’s your bed now, too.”

She hears Steve inhale, short, like he’s trying to hide the sound. When he speaks, it’s with that tight voice she remembers him using when trying to play off a question’s importance.

“Does that bother you? That it’s my bed, too?”

The absurdity of the question is like a knife to Diana’s side, making her immediately uncoil. She swoops forward to cup Steve’s cheek.

“No,” she insists, desperate that he understand this. “No, Steve, no. It does not bother me. I cannot tell you how glad I am for it.”

Steve swallows, managing a small nod. “Okay.”

But she can still see the doubt lingering. So she twists, wrenching her hand from his and cupping his other cheek so that she’s hovering above him, holding him in place, forcing him to look at her.

“Steve, please. Please, you don’t know how—you don’t know how much I missed—”

She’s still fumbling for the words when he starts laughing, all fondness and amusement and a little bit of relief. “Okay, okay. I know. I know, Diana.”

She releases her hold only slightly, stroking a slow line along his left cheekbone. To be able to do this, to feel him shift and breathe beneath her touch when for a century she didn’t even have a photo of him, is a blessing she never imagined possible. But she knows that Diana not want Steve so badly that she rose him from the dead. His presence is a gift, but that does not mean his life is hers to unwrap, to possess, to command.

She takes a breath. It’s been a long time since she’s felt this sensation, a tingling at her spine she recognizes as vulnerability.

“Steve,” she says, slow and firm. “My life as I live it today is built upon a century’s worth of choices, choices I made alone. It seems unfair to ask you to bear their weight.”

Steve’s brow crinkles. “Are we still talking about the bed set?”

“Steve—”

He grins, almost breathless. “Diana, I’m _alive_. I don’t get to complain about things being unfair ever again.”

“But—”

“Plus I like the bed set. Are they all this soft, now?”

“Steve.” She leans down and kisses him once, gentle. “You know what I mean.”

His smile dips just a moment as he registers the weight of her words, but then it widens again. “I do. But trust me, I’m fine. I’m good. I picked these clothes, right? So I’m set. I’m happy to live in your world, I really am.”

She exhales, half a laugh. “You are?”

His hands close around her wrists. “You want me here?”

“Yes,” she says, immediate. “Yes, of course.”

“Well,” he says, his smile bright and wide, crinkling the skin at his eyes. “Then I want to be here. I just have one question. Or, err—request, I suppose.”

“Anything.”

“You’re going to join me in bed soon, right? Because today has been exhausting. Your stores are _loud_ and way too bright. Oppressively bright. And the lighting in here is fine, so I know that’s not standard to the time period. They’re _choosing_ to make it that bright.”

The affection wells up in her chest so hot in fast that she can’t help herself: she leans down to kiss him again, and again and again, until she’s half on top of him, bracketing his head with her arms. But for all his talk of sleep he seems content to keep her there, sliding a hand along her waist and shifting to pull her more firmly on top of his broad chest, eagerly opening his mouth beneath hers.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, kissing a line down the curve of his jaw. “I think this is not what you had in mind when you requested I join you.”

“It wasn’t,” he admits. “But it really should have been.”

She smiles against the skin of his neck, hand slipping under the hem of that new white t-shirt.

“I thought today was exhausting?”

He makes a noise, almost a whine. “Diana. C’mon. I was—I didn’t mean—can we just—”

She surges up to kiss him again, cutting him off. Any thought of the bed set is quickly forgotten.

 

* * *

 

**+1 week after**

“I don’t get it,” says Steve, with some degree of petulance. “It’s a telephone. Why does it need my fingerprints?”

He’s sitting up in bed, frowning down at the small black rectangle in his hands. Diana lets her book on Minoan pottery fall to her lap, twisting to face him.

“It’s more than a phone,” she explains. “It’s also computer.”

“A what?”

“It can do many things in addition to making and receiving calls. It can send letters, act as a bank or a scribe, hold music and movies and—”

Steve drops the phone, his head thunking back against the headboard. “I just want a telephone, Diana. That’s it.”

She leans toward him and rubs his shoulder, consoling. Up until this point, he has approached the twenty-first century with the same easy acceptance as he did Themyscira: curious and frequently perplexed, but not overwhelmed.

“It takes time to learn. But you _will_ learn. I will teach you.”

“It just seems needlessly complicated,” Steve complains, brushing some hair from his eyes. “When we’re apart, I want to be able to contact you. That shouldn’t be so hard.”

Her hand stills against his shoulder. “Apart?”

“Well, yeah. I’m assuming you’re not taking me on that work trip to Athens next week.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but he smiles—smooth and easy—and his hand finds hers beneath the sheets.

“It was on your calendar. The one you keep in the kitchen. Don’t worry, I’m not offended, I just want to be prepared.”

“I could take you with me,” says Diana, frowning. She’s been avoiding thinking about the trip up until this point, avoiding thinking about all the many facets of her life in which Steve does not yet belong. “I could book another ticket, and—”

“No.” It’s gentle, not a reprimand. “Look, I live here now, right? So I might as well...learn how to live here without you needing to mess up your life to teach me. I’m still figuring this out, but I’ll get the hang of this eventually. Don’t let me slow you down.”

“You don’t slow me down,” says Diana, insistent. He has never slowed her down, never. Even with all she is capable of, even when she runs five times faster, jumps a hundred times higher, Steve has managed to find a way to match her pace.

He grins, ducking his head. “Thanks.” His hand tightens around hers. “Go to Athens. I’ll stay behind and figure out how to use the, uh...the kitchen thing? With the beeping?”

“The microwave.”

“Yeah, that. I’ll be fine, Diana. I can telephone you, or write letters.” He frowns. “Although they might not make it to you if you’re only going to be there a week.”

Diana gestures down to the phone in his lap. “If you finish setting that up, I’ll show you how to send letters that arrive in a few seconds.”

Steve groans. “Well, that is pretty tempting. Okay, fine, you win. How do I do this?”

She leans her head against his shoulder as he picks up the phone again, turning it in his hands as he tries to figure out which side is the front. “There are instructions. The phone will guide you.”

“Spooky.” He kisses her forehead before settling back against the headboard and lifting the phone close to his face. “Okay. Here we go.”

 

* * *

 

**+1 month after**

Steve does not sleep deeply. Years of war, of shaking awake to sudden destruction leave a lasting imprint, even long after the war is done. So when Diana eases slowly, silently onto the mattress beside him, he springs awake with a gasp, her name tumbling immediately from his lips.

“Diana!”

“Shh,” she eases, fumbling in the darkness to press her palm to his chest, steadying him. “It’s me. Go back to sleep.”

He has a call tomorrow for which he’s been preparing all week; this job at the United Nations is new and precious, and she knows he’s working to make a good impression. She doesn’t need to keep him up for this. He’ll only worry.

And there’s nothing to worry about. The wound is largely closed, now, though the sheer size of it—slicing a straight line from her shoulder to the upper ridge of her armband—means it will take a bit longer to fully heal. It’s less painful than it was earlier, but still stings enough that she winces as she settles back against the pillows.

This, alas, does not go unnoticed.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, shifting beside her. “Diana?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just—”

But Steve has already flicked the lamp on his side of the bed. He blinks at the sudden onslaught of light, and then he looks at her and his face drains of all color.

“Oh—” he breathes, sharp. “Oh, no, Diana—”

“I’m fine,” she says, although this seems not to quell the terror in his eyes. “I’m fine, Steve. Really.”

He leans over her, stroking her hair as his eyes trace frantically trace the outline of her scar. “Are you in pain?”

“Less so, now.”

“Right.” He swallows. “You told me you were staying late for a meeting.”

“I did stay late for a meeting. But on my way home, an issue came up that I had to attend to.”

“Sure.” He scrubs his face in frustration. “What can I do?”

She shakes her head, lifting her uninjured arm to stroke his arm. “Nothing, Steve. It’s fine. I heal very fast, you know that. So by morning—”

“Did you dress the wound?” Steve asks, still trembling with nervous energy.

“Yes.”

“You’ve stopped bleeding?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He pauses, exhales. “Diana, please, there has to be something I can do. _Something_. I know you’ve done this for years without me, I know you’ve got it handled, but seriously, I’m losing my mind over here.”

She smiles. “Kiss me?”

His eyes twitch down to her arm, then back, and the concern on his face makes her head spin with the dizzying weight of the love she feels for him: for this man who trusts in her strength as a warrior and still touches her like she’s something precious, delicate.

She nods as if to say, _it’s alright—you won’t hurt me._

He bends down to kiss her, soft and slow. He hovers a few inches from her face when he pulls away, his breath warm on her cheeks. “Anything else I can do?”

“Yes. Hold me while we sleep?”

He tips his head forward, resting his forehead briefly against hers. “At your service.”

She rolls onto her side as he flicks off the light, and then he’s sliding in behind her, pressing tight against her back. She lifts her arm so that he can slide his over her waist, his fingers splayed across her ribs like he means to anchor her there. Closing her eyes, she shifts back until she can feel his nose brush up against her shoulder, until her hips are flush with his.

Truth be told, her arm does still sting. But that will be gone by morning. And it’s worth it, to have him close, to fall asleep feeling chest expand against her back with his every breath. It’s very, very worth it.

 

* * *

 

**+6 months after**

Steve flops back against the bed: lips parted, eyes closed, bare chest heaving with short, labored breaths. The fingers of his left hand are still tangled tight in their formerly crisp sheets, and she lays her hand over his to ease the tension from his knuckles.

“Nnngg,” Steve mutters. If it’s meant to be a word, it’s in a language Diana does not recognize.

“Steve?”

He cracks an eye open to look up at her.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

Most men, in her experience, do not appreciate being asked this question in this particular moment: just after sex, still naked and exposed. Men demand pleasure in unreasonable quantities, yet scoff at the suggestion that they might not be able to handle their own exaggerated expectations.

But Steve is not most men. She learned that long ago.

He chuckles, lifting his free hand to curve it around her cheek. “Never better, Diana. Seriously. I just...I might need to sleep for a few hours. Possibly days.”

He tilts his chin forward, asking for a kiss he has no energy to lift his head for, and affection courses through her so hot and fast, she has to bite back the urge to swoop down and press him into the mattress. Instead she leans down carefully, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as she softly kisses his lips, his cheek, his jaw. Then she extracts her legs from around his waist, rolling to lay beside him, hand splayed across the broad, firm stretch of his chest.

“So,” says Steve, after a beat. “About that museum event tonight.”

“You don’t want to go?” Diana guesses.

“Uh. It’s not—I mean, I _want_ to go. I just—”

“You’re too tired.”

His nose scrunches as he tilts his head to look at her, more amused than affronted. “Ouch. I mean…not inaccurate, but still. Ouch.”

“You’ve been away all week for work, of course you’re tired.”

He grins, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s the _being away_ bit that’s really getting to me right now.”

She ducks her head, smiling into the skin of his shoulder. “Stay home tonight.”

Steve’s palm skims along the line of her arm. “Do you have to go?”

“I do.”

“Then I’m going too.”

“But—”

“Nope, I’m going too. I just uh…” He yawns, his words blurry with near-sleep. “How much time do I have to nap before I have to get ready?”

“About an hour. I’ll wake you, if you like.”

“I would like very much,” says Steve, closing his eyes. “First we—well, no. First _I_ sleep, then we mingle, and then we both sleep. That’s the plan.”

She brushes a stray piece of hair off his forehead. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

* * *

 

**+1 year after**

Diana lifts her head to the whining bleat of the alarm, reaching out blindly to scoop her phone off the bedside table and shut it off. Beside her, Steve makes a vaguely inhuman sound—somewhere between a groan and a wail.

“No,” she hears him mutter. “Nope, no. No.”

When she turns to face him, she finds his eyes scrunched closed, the hazy morning light from the window casting a glowing rectangle across the bare skin of his shoulder. His stubble is long and flecked with gray, his cheek a mess of squiggly lines from his pillow.

He’s beautiful.

“You can keep sleeping,” she reminds him, resisting the urge to lay a hand across his cheek. (She doesn’t want to wake him.) “I’ll be back soon.”

“No,” Steve mumbles. Without warning he shifts, settling his arm across her side.

She raises an eyebrow. “You know I’m going for a run.”

“I do know that,” Steve agrees, eyes still closed. “I know that, because you go for a run every day. Which is awesome, don’t get me wrong, but it’s _Saturday,_ Diana. Saturday.”

She smiles, heart flooding with warmth. “Your point?”

“Most people use Saturday mornings for sleep.” His palm splays across the small of her back as he wriggles closer, pulling her gently towards his chest.

“Most people?” she echoes, letting her fingers trace a line down the side of his ribs.

Steve smiles. “I know, you’re not most people. But I am, so I’m going to spend at least a little bit of this morning in bed. I’d really like it if you joined me.”

She wonders if she should resist, get up and go about her plans anyways. But she has no desire to, none at all. She would gladly spend a lifetime here in their bed, skin on skin, the whole world narrowed to the soft curve of his smile, the gentle beat of his heart. Everything else can wait.

She shifts closer, a quiet assent, and he grins without opening his eyes. He pulls her tighter, looping his leg over hers as though to lock her in place.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, kissing her brow. “I’ll make you breakfast later.”

“You don’t need to reward me for agreeing to spend time doing something I love. This is not exactly a burden.”

He chuckles, low. “Okay, okay. But I’m making you breakfast anyway.”

She nods, eyes fluttering closed. “Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

**+2 years after**

Diana has never been particular about sleeping arrangements. But if she were to choose her favorite way to sleep, it would be pressed against the broad expanse of Steve’s back, arms curled tight around his chest, one leg tangled between his.

Some nights, they fall into this position naturally. Other nights—like tonight—she insists on it.

“You packed?” Steve asks, running his thumb down the length of her forearm.

Diana digs her nose into Steve’s shoulder blade as she nods. “Yes. Are you?”

“Your flight’s tomorrow. _My_ flight doesn’t leave for two more days. I have time.”

“Remember that you need to put your toiletries in the plastic bag this time, okay? I can leave some out on the counter in the morning.”

“I used to be a _pilot_ ,” he grumbles. “And now I’m getting yelled at because I try to walk through the security station with my shoes on. Air travel is so complicated now.”

“Yes,” she agrees, kissing the base of his neck. “Many things are.”

“Did he say what he needs you for?” Steve asks, voice soft.

“Bruce? He didn’t want to talk specifics over the phone. But he doesn’t call unless it’s a problem too big for him to handle himself.”

Steve makes a sound low in his throat in acknowledgement. A moment passes, and then: “That usually means it’s a pretty big problem.”

“Yes,” Diana allows. “I expect it is.”

Steve tugs at her arm, pulling it even more tightly around him. “You know the drill, right? My phone’s on at all times. You say the word, and I skip the meeting and hop on the next plane to Metropolis.”

She smiles. She does know this drill. And on many dangerous occasions during the past few years, Steve’s presence—his knack for diplomacy, his accuracy with a weapon, his grit—has been a valuable asset. But the dangerous tenor of Bruce’s (usually quite monotonous) voice over the phone suggested this might be a mission that Diana wants Steve nowhere near.

“Thank you, Steve.”

He exhales. “You’ll be careful, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll write me every day?”

“Yes, Steve. I will text you every day.”

He huffs a laugh, twining his fingers with hers. “‘Write’ sounds way more romantic.”

“But text is what will actually happen.”

“You know, in my time, we wrote letters. Actual letters, a whole page or two long. Full words spelled out and everything!”

“You did.”

“I’m just saying, if we have the ability to send letters so fast, why are they all so _short_?”

“I know, I know,” she laughs. “Not very romantic.”

“Not very romantic at all.”

Diana laughs, tightening her grip.

“I love you,” she murmurs—easy, warm. Words she spent decades thinking she’d never get to say, spoken now in whispers as they lay together in their bed. This world is truly a strange, wondrous place.

He pulls their conjoined hands up to his lips, presses a kiss to her knuckles.

“See?” he whispers. “ _That_ was romantic. Love you, too.”

She buries her face in his skin in an effort to resist the urge to roll him over, to climb on top of him, to kiss those lips she will never, ever tire of kissing. But he needs the rest, and so does she.

And they have time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who suggested the sequel! As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you'd like to come say hi! :)


End file.
